


TLC

by faithlessone



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, closest thing to smut i've ever published
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6043960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes all an Inquisitor needs is a bit of TLC from her Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cullen

She doesn’t come down for dinner. That’s the first clue.

Evelyn has been back from her trek to the Hinterlands for two days. Last night he had let her be, knowing how much she enjoys a single night purely to herself after such a long time crowded with her companions, sharing tents and campfires with rarely a moment on her own. He’s waited a month for her this time, he doesn’t mind waiting another day, especially knowing that she’s just across the keep rather than miles away.

There’s a ritual. His soldiers sight her in the distance as her party approaches Skyhold. He finishes whatever work he is in the middle of while she attends to the horses, helps unload her gear and checks in with the companions who have not accompanied her. They meet in his office or the hall; whoever is done first comes to find the other (she usually has to find him). There’s a meeting with Josephine and Leliana in the War Room, to deal with whatever issues have arisen during or as a result of her expedition. Then she slips away, and he returns to his office. The following day, when she is rested and recharged, her usual personal matters accomplished, she joins them all for dinner.

But today she hasn’t.

“Has anyone seen the Inquisitor today?” asks Leliana, in that light offhand tone she uses when she is asking questions she already knows the answers to.

Around the table, heads shake. That’s the second clue. Usually she spends at least some of her day off with her friends, talking or playing, showing them the new armour and equipment she’s had made, or distributing shiny trinkets she’s picked up.

“She hasn’t been in the library, either,” Dorian adds, in that light offhand tone he uses when something is probably actually fairly wrong.

The third clue. She may have enough books in her room to count as her own personal library, but she normally takes the opportunity to check that nothing new has appeared in the castle’s collection in her absence.

Before he has even had the clarity of mind to form the thought, Josephine passes him a tray bearing a plate of Evelyn’s favourites. Varric adds a bottle of wine and two goblets.

“Go,” Cole says, brightly. “She’ll be happier then.”

That worries him a little more, but he rises to his feet, swaying back a step when Sera darts across the table to drop a pile of small yellow cakes onto the tray.

“They’re not poisoned,” she adds, clearly noting the look of distrust that automatically crosses his face. “Or tricks. She likes them.”

He’s still not entirely convinced, but experience has told him not to question Sera too heavily, else he risks being pranked more often. He leaves without another word, food and wine in hand.

As he climbs the stairs, he can’t help but feel out of place. He has only stepped inside the Inquisitor’s quarters a handful of times. She prefers to visit him in his, despite the hole in his roof and the ever-present threat of his soldiers and scouts wandering through the office below. But she hasn’t emerged for a day, so he steels himself, and knocks at the door. There is no response.

Perhaps she’s asleep?

He doesn’t want to bother her if she’s asleep.

But what if she’s ill? Or unconscious?

He opens the door and climbs the last flight of stairs to her bedroom, carefully balancing the overfilled tray.

“My lady? Evelyn?” he calls, softly, in case she is asleep.

“Hi,” she groans, the word muffled by her pillow.

He looks over towards the bed, and immediately looks away again, greeted by the sight of her entirely bare back. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen it before, but there’s a difference between that and this, unsolicited and unannounced in her bedroom. Her sanctuary.

He rubs the back of his neck, his usual nervous gesture. “Apologies, my lady. You’re resting. I should… I should leave you.”

She groans again, and he finally recognises it for a sound of pain rather than irritation. He chances another look.

Her back is covered in bruises, and there is a laceration along her spine. All thoughts of chivalry evaporate as he leaves the tray on the table and crosses the room towards her, desperate to check if it’s as bad as he fears.

“Evelyn, have you been checked by a healer?” He already knows the answer, but it’s more polite to ask.

She replies into her pillow, but the tone is clear.

“I thought as much.”

Now that he’s close enough, he can see that it’s not nearly the fatal injury he had first imagined. The cut to her back is shallow but a little inflamed, caked in dried blood and grime. It needs cleaning and dressing. The bruises are dark, spread haphazardly across her skin, but none look deep enough to provoke concern about internal bleeding.

He doesn’t even notice his fingers are running across her skin until she sighs.

“Forgive me,” he says, pulling back.

To his surprise, however, her hand reaches out, grasping blindly for his.

“It’s nice,” she mumbles, placing his hand in its previous position. He stares at it for a long moment, and then makes a decision.

“Nevertheless, you need to get this treated. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She shakes her head, turning to look at him at last. Her expression is more embarrassed than anything else, and it makes his heart ache. “Just my back. And it’s not bad, Cullen. I’ve had worse injuries than this. I just need to rest and let it heal itself. I’ll be fine by tonight, I promise.”

“You missed dinner.”

There’s a pause as she appears to digest this information, before she tilts her head, looking through the long stained glass windows at the breath-taking view beyond. She seems surprised that the sun has dipped below the mountains, and that a deep orange light has suffused the room.

“When did that happen?”

He can’t help but smile. She sounds so indignant that the sun has had the audacity to set without her knowledge. He strokes his fingers more firmly across her back and she inhales sharply.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

She looks back at him, and smiles. “Of course I do.”

“Would you let me help you? Treat you?”

He can’t quite figure out the look in her eyes, but she nods.

“Do you have any medical supplies?”

She waves a hand towards a trunk at the edge of the room, and he quickly gathers the necessary materials. A bowl of water and the softest cloth to wash her wound, a dressing to cover it, and a soothing lotion for the bruising.

When he returns to the bed, her face is back in the pillow. He kneels uncertainly beside her, peeling off his gloves. His hands seem to be shaking slightly as he dips the cloth into the water. Why is this so difficult? She’s injured, he can help. When the other templars didn’t want magical healing, he bandaged wounds and dressed burns. He’s done it a hundred times for his fellow soldiers, when help was far away or overstretched.

So why does it matter so much that it’s her?

He hears the wince, feels the shudder that goes through her body when he starts to clean the wound.

“It needs to be done,” he apologises, feeling terrible. Causing her even more pain in her injured condition is the last thing he wants. “I can do it quickly, but it will be more uncomfortable. Or I can be more careful, but it will take more time.”

She makes a pained noise, and then, “Take your time.”

He tries to make his touch as light as possible. This is less familiar. Treatment in the field is quick and awkward, patching up enough to keep you alive and hopefully get you back to the fight. Delicacy isn’t his strongest suit. In this arena, at least.

But for her? He’ll try.

He works in silence, listening carefully to her breathing to direct his movements. A sharp inhale and he pulls back, apologising under his breath. It looks like a neat slice down her back, so it should heal well with minimal scarring, but there’s irritation too. Her clothes rubbing against it, perhaps? Riding home from the Hinterlands must have been agonising.

A thought manages to bubble its way to the front of his mind. She’s notoriously terrible at looking after herself, but her companions usually manage to keep an eye on her injuries. Why did no one mention this?

“How did you manage to keep this from Cassandra, Vivienne and Varric?” he asks. “Your coat must have been ripped up.” 

There’s a mumble from the pillow.

“Pardon?”

Evelyn turns her head, looking even more embarrassed than before. “Vivienne put charms on all my clothes. Because I kept getting dirty and ripping them. They clean and repair themselves.”

“What?”

“They’re flame-retardant as well. Which is helpful. Not knife proof though.”

“Do I need to give you another lecture on not letting the enemy get behind you?”

She laughs. It’s sweet and genuine and easy and he misses it when she’s away. “You know how much I love your lectures.”

He smiles, returning to his work. “I’ll prepare one especially. But let me get you fighting fit again first.”

It seems to take hours until he’s happy to put on the dressing. She protests when he tries to bandage it securely to her back. “I heal well, Cullen, promise. You don’t have to bother with all that.”

He does it anyway, and she graces him with a reluctantly grateful smile.

“You don’t have to sit up here being gentlemanly. I know I can’t be very good company like this.”

Does she really not realise that he would do anything just to have the excuse to be near her?

“I can think of no place I’d rather be,” he promises. “Now lie back down. I want to do something about these bruises.”

She looks as if she’s about to protest again, and he fixes her with a firm look. She may be the Inquisitor, but if he needs to be her Commander, he can be. She lies down.

The first, exploratory, tentative sweep of his hands makes her sigh. He starts with the worst of the bruises, carefully rubbing the healing herb-infused lotion into her skin. Such soft, soft skin. It never fails to amaze him how she can be so brave and fearless and sharp in every aspect of herself except this. Even the scattering of scars she has are feather light and silvery. Her skin feels like the finest silk under his fingers.

She shudders again, a full-bodied shake that almost makes him release her in panic.

“Too much?”

There is a noise of disagreement from the pillow, but he holds still, barely touching her, until she reaches for him again to resume his ministrations. He moves away from the bruising to the rest of her back and shoulders. If he’s put her through so much pain and discomfort to aid her wounds, the least he can do is help her relax. Her muscles are tight. Tighter than can be explained away by the stress of her injuries.

She carries so much on these shoulders. The weight of the Inquisition, of all of Thedas, really. No wonder they’re so tense.

His fingers dig into her shoulders, press against the knotted muscles and start to stretch them out. Slowly, carefully. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but she keeps tensing under his hands.

“Relax, Evelyn,” he commands. “Let me help you.”

She softens almost infinitesimally, and he is struck by a sudden flicker of courage, a Maker-sent idea. His hand slips to her waist, and he bends smoothly over her, lips searching out her neck, her shoulder, the top of her spine. She melts underneath him, going boneless against the bed, the tension evaporating as his mouth moves along her skin.

“Better,” he whispers, lips against her ear. Not a question. She shivers again, and he smiles.

He leans back again, and resumes the massage. Her back, shoulders, arms and legs all release their tension under his hands and lips. He’s wanted to do this for so long, but there’s never been an excuse to do it. No easy way to drop it into the conversation. Somehow it feels more intimate than anything they’ve done before. Which is preposterous, he knows, but even so.

When she finally feels undone under his fingers, not a spot of stress left in her body, he feels almost disappointed. It’s beyond his honour to take advantage of her in such a weakened state, and with her injuries treated, there is no good reason for him to keep touching her.

Then he spots the food and wine lying abandoned on the table. In all the chaos, he had neglected the purpose for invading her bedroom in the first place.

The bed moves as he stands up, and immediately she lets out a sleepy noise of protest. He brushes her hair back, smiling a little smugly as he sees the blissed out expression on her face. She opens one eye, as if making sure it’s still him.

“When was the last time you ate anything?” he asks. It comes out a little firmer than he intended, but she still smiles.

“Yesterday,” she admits, peacefully. “And not much even then.”

“Give me a moment.”

She nods, letting him cross the room to retrieve the errant tray. He notes with a smile that everything Josephine chose tastes just as good cold, and idly wonders what their friends assumed was going to happen when he went upstairs.

“Sit up,” he orders softly, setting the tray beside her bed and helping her to sit back against the pillows. He’s gratified to see that she was telling the truth. There are no injuries to her chest or stomach, just a little light bruising. Nothing worse than she’d get sparring with her friends. He pulls the blanket up, tucking it around her. Keeping her warm will help her heal.

She reaches for the plate and he bats her hand away, picking it up himself.

“Relax. Let me.”

He suspects actually feeding her might be a step too far for her independence, but he’s willing to insist on holding the plate and pouring her wine for her. She rests against his shoulder, accepting the bites of food he hands her. She grins when he offers her a cake.

“Sera?”

“How did you guess?”

“She doesn’t like cookies. I gave her these instead. She loved them. Said she’d learn how to make them.”

His concern must show, because she laughs.

“She hasn’t. The cook won’t let her in the kitchen anymore.”

She eats the tiny pastry and then offers one to him. He lets her feed it to him without a word, trusting her implicitly. It’s not a variety he’s had before, but it’s soft and spongy and the honey spice flavour bursts across his tongue. He can see why she and Sera love them.

“This is nice,” she sighs. “I should get injured more often.”

She’s joking. He knows she’s joking, but he can’t help but tense. The idea of her getting hurt on purpose is almost too much to bear. He reaches out, lacing his fingers with hers.

“You don’t need to be hurt for me to take care of you. Just say the word and I’ll make you feel better.”

She smiles, squeezing his fingers. “You always make me feel better.”

With the food all gone and the wine mostly drunk, he decides it would be prudent to take his leave. She needs rest and sleep if she’s to resume her normal duties tomorrow as he knows she wants. But as he moves to go…

“Where are you going?”

“You should rest.”

“I’ll rest better with you. I’ve… I’ve missed you. Stay?”

Her voice is small and quiet and tentative, as if terrified he’ll turn her down. As if he could.

He doesn’t need to think about it any further. With a smile, he stands, removing his cloak. Neither of them will get any sort of decent rest with him covered in armour. She watches him undress, a look in her eyes that he knows all too well. The look that usually precipitates him finding the nearest flat surface to press her against.

Not tonight.

“That would not be restful,” he warns, sliding into the bed beside her. 

She snuggles up against him, wrapping his arm around her. He’s careful not to press too heavily against the bandage.

“It could be?” she says, leaning up to kiss him properly. Finally.

“Not the way I would do it.” She’s testing his resolve, he knows it, and he refuses to let her. Thankfully the commanding note in his voice seems to settle her. She kisses him again and then relaxes into his arms.

“In the morning?” she asks, half asleep already, head comfortable on his chest.

“Perhaps.”


	2. Evelyn

She doesn’t really notice the slice of the bandit’s knife. Too much adrenaline coursing through her from the fight. It isn’t until she gets back to the camp and settles down for sleep that it begins to hurt.

At first she assumes it’s just the bruises. That morning, she had taken a bit of a nasty spill off a deceptively placed rock and landed on her back. Which is not exactly a rare occasion. Vivienne, in particular, had been appalled by her eagerness to throw herself at cliffs she probably couldn’t climb and water she probably couldn’t swim in. Not to mention her habit of looting the corpses of their enemies, which tended to get her clothes even dirtier than the fights. Thus, the best repairing and stain-removing charms the Imperial Enchanter could work had been applied to every piece of clothing she owned.

Which is another reason she doesn’t really notice the slice of the bandit’s knife. Her coat had stitched itself back together in the time it took for her to whirl around and fix the culprit with a fireball to the face.

Lying in her bedroll on the cold hard ground, feeling that particular sticky discomfort of a partially healed wound, she figures out what must have happened. And groans quietly.

“Go to sleep,” Cassandra mutters grumpily from the other side of the tent.

Silently, she rolls over, relieving the pressure on her back. It’s not her favourite sleeping position, but this is their last day in the Hinterlands. At first light, they’ll be riding back to Skyhold. A day of rest in her unreasonably comfortable four poster bed, followed by a nice hot bath, will fix her up. No point bothering the healers and worrying everyone for a few bruises and a cut not even deep enough for her to notice.

She has somewhat revised that judgement by the time they actually reach Skyhold the following evening. The hours of riding, her sticky, dirty undershirt rubbing against her back, has her skin burning and her usual good humour disappearing with every step. Luckily everyone’s in a bad mood about something, so hers goes mostly unnoticed.

When they actually reach the gates of Skyhold, she makes her usual rounds as quickly and efficiently as possible, with lots of promises to come back and talk properly when she’s rested. Everyone seems understanding, even Josephine, which is unusual to say the least. She keeps the war council meeting as short as possible, offering her written reports to read later. Leliana claims she has nothing important to impart, which seems unlikely, but she assumes her Spymaster will catch her up the following day. Only Cullen seems not to notice that she’s a little more stressed than customary. He kisses her good night after the meeting, and promises to join her for dinner as usual the following day.

Then finally, finally, she is able to stagger up the stairs to her quarters. There’s a plate of bread and cheese on her desk, but she barely manages to eat any of it. Instead, she downs two glasses of wine and collapses face down on her bed.

Sleep.

Blissful, blissful sleep.

There’s a knock at the door.

She lies still and quiet. Hopefully whoever it is will go away. Then there are footsteps on the stairs. Heavy ones. A man in armour. She presses her face into the pillows and screws her eyes shut. 

“My lady? Evelyn?”

Cullen. Of course it’s Cullen. Who else would both sneak into her room unannounced and then alert her to their presence?

It’s not that she doesn’t want him in her bedroom. Of course she wants him in her bedroom. She wants him almost all the time in any room she happens to be in. But she’s tired and achy and she doesn’t really want him to see her like this. He’ll just worry and make her see someone to get it checked. And yes, he cares, but she’s a grown woman and the Inquisitor, and she should get to make her own decisions.

She reaches for the blanket, to cover her back, but the effort of moving is almost too much. All she can manage is a mumbled greeting into the pillow. “Hi.” 

“Apologies, my lady,” he says, after a moment. He sounds so delightfully flustered, and she wonders if he’s rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re resting. I should… I should leave you.”

She tries to roll over, tries to sit up, but the action makes the scab pull and she can’t stifle the groan of pain that escapes.

She feels the flurry of movement more than she hears it.

“Evelyn, have you been checked by a healer?” Cullen’s voice is much closer now, and even without needing to see him, she just knows he’s kneeling beside the bed.

“What do you think?” she mutters, but the pillow deadens the sound almost completely.

“I thought as much.” His voice is soft and almost amused.

She feels something on her back. A light, trailing pressure that feels soft and warm and safe against her skin. She can’t help but sigh. It feels so good. It’s only when the pressure is gone that she realises what it must have been.

“Forgive me,” he says, softly.

She refuses to let him get away with acting so bashful. Still unwilling to lift her head, she reaches blindly for his hand, replacing his fingers on her back. 

“It’s nice,” she insists.

This time, he lets them stay. She almost falls back to sleep with the soothing sensation of his fingers trailing across her spine. 

“Nevertheless, you need to get this treated. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She shakes her head, forcing herself to look at him, a last ditch attempt to make him let this go. 

“Just my back. And it’s not bad, Cullen. I’ve had worse injuries than this. I just need to rest and let it heal itself. I’ll be fine by tonight, I promise.”

She can’t help but notice how dim the room is. Did he really come looking for her so early?

“You missed dinner,” he says, smirking in that infuriating way he does. 

Does he know how much it drives her crazy? He must. No man could look at a woman that way and not know what an effect it had. Then the words he actually said make sense to her.

Dinner?

She looks up, through the tall windows beyond his head. It’s not the weak light of early morning as she assumed. The sun has actually started to set. She can barely see it behind the mountains that circle the castle. Has she really been asleep for an entire day?

“When did that happen?”

While she’s still looking out of the window, he increases the pressure on her back. It should hurt, she knows that, logically, but somehow it feels even better. She gasps involuntarily.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

She makes herself look back at him. The smirk has softened, and she can’t help but smile back at him. “Of course I do.”

“Would you let me help you? Treat you?”

A million images occur to her all at once. Ideas of all the ways he could possibly ‘treat’ her. Most of them involve his hands on her body, and few of them involve any sort of clothing. Especially on her. She can only nod dumbly to his question, not really trusting herself to speak. 

“Do you have any medical supplies?”

She waves a hand blindly towards the trunk that contains such things, and buries her face back in the pillow, listening as he roots around in her belongings and prepares what he needs. He’s just being nice, she reminds herself, over and over again. Chivalrous. Because she’s too stubborn to get herself checked out by the people who are actually supposed to do this sort of thing. She knows he worries about her when she’s out in the field. If this helps him feel better, it’s the least she can do.

Then she hears him return, and the next time his hands are on her back, they’re bare.

She can’t help but shiver. He wears his gloves almost constantly. Bare hands have certain… connotations.

“It needs to be done,” he apologises. He sounds so sorry. She wants to tell him that it’s fine, that she likes it, that she _really_ likes it, but what if he thinks that’s weird? What if he stops?

“I can do it quickly,” he continues. “But it will be more uncomfortable. Or I can be more careful, but it will take more time.”

The correct answer is to let him do it quickly, get it over with. She knows this. She shouldn’t take up any more of his valuable time than necessary. But the feeling of his hands on her skin, the careful press of the cloth, even the sound of his breathing? She wants it for as long as possible. Which makes her a horrible, selfish person but Void take it, if she can’t be selfish for an hour or so with a knife wound in her back, when can she?

Her voice is still not trustworthy, and she can’t help the slight groan that escapes before she manages to say, “Take your time.”

This proves to be the wrong decision. His touch goes feather light. Fingers like spirits on her back. It’s, if anything, more intoxicating. She has to will herself to stay still, terrified that if she shakes again, he’ll stop and force her to see a professional. 

He’s so quiet. She can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. His voice is… it’s indescribable. Strong and smooth and even when he’s stumbling over his words, he still sounds commanding. Regal, almost. The sort of voice that would compel a person into battle for no other reason than to hear it give an order again. And when he drops his tone, going all dark and deep? He must be intending to make her melt, there’s no other explanation for it.

His voice would give her something else to focus on, something to distract from his damnable hands. She can’t help but gasp when he brushes a particularly sensitive spot. A spot she swears wasn’t particularly sensitive ever before. 

Then he does speak, and she realises that she was wrong again.

“How did you manage to keep this from Cassandra, Vivienne and Varric?” he asks, quietly, that voice rolling over her. “Your coat must have been ripped up.” 

To be honest, she’s not sure she did manage to keep it from Cass, but the Seeker is just as bad for avoiding the healers, so she didn’t make a fuss. However, she refuses to drop her friend in it for nothing, so she’ll ignore that detail. The second question seems an easier answer.

“Vivienne,” she says, face still buried in the pillow.

“Pardon?”

Reluctantly, she turns her head. He won’t let this go until she gives him an explanation. His hands have paused, and he won’t start again until he’s happy with her answer, she knows. He’s like a Mabari with a bone that way. It would be annoying if it weren’t so endearingly Ferelden of him. 

“Vivienne put charms on all my clothes,” she explains, trying not to look as flushed as she undoubtedly must. “Because I kept getting dirty and ripping them. They clean and repair themselves.”

He frowns down at her, looking charmingly confused by the notion. “What?”

“They’re flame-retardant as well. Which is helpful. Not knife proof though.”

“Do I need to give you another lecture on not letting the enemy get behind you?”

She’s transported back to Haven, joking and smiling with him. The image of him, almost completely oblivious to her early awkward attempts at flirting, and she can’t help but laugh. “You know how much I love your lectures.”

He smirks, and she wonders if he’s got the same image in his head. “I’ll prepare one especially. But let me get you fighting fit again first.”

His hands begin to move again, and she turns her face back into the pillow. Somehow it’s easier when she can’t actually see him out of the corner of her eye. It’s over all too soon anyway. He puts the cloth to one side, and presses something against the wound.

Then his fingers slide from her back to her sides, and Maker, she thought him touching her back was bad enough, but it has nothing on the promise of those hands imminently touching her chest. Especially when she’s fairly sure the only reason she’d want him to touch her chest is likely to be off the table tonight.

“I heal well, Cullen, promise,” she attempts to protest, finally able to almost roll away from him. “You don’t have to bother with all that.”

But then she looks at his face, actually looks at it, at the concerned, apologetic, anxious expression on it. He thinks she’s in pain, doesn’t he? The ridiculous perfect man. That all this time he’s been trying so carefully to help her, make her feel better, and he’s taken her shivers and moans for signs of discomfort. She feels _terrible_ , and yet can’t bear to put him right. He’d be so embarrassed.

So she smiles tentatively and helps him wrap the bandages around her chest. 

“You don’t have to sit up here being gentlemanly. I know I can’t be very good company like this.”

She doesn’t want him to leave. She really doesn’t. But she needs to give him an out. Even if she’s simultaneously praying that he won’t take it.

Then the concern melts from his face, and he looks at her with such… love. His eyes seem warmer, the caramel colour deepening to gold as he studies her. She feels defenceless against them.

“I can think of no place I’d rather be,” he promises, his voice smooth. “Now lie back down. I want to do something about these bruises.”

She steels herself for more of those devastatingly stimulating touches, but he must think she’s refusing, because his eyes darken and he turns in the barest fraction of movement from her gallant lover into her fearless Commander. And Maker, he knows what that does to her. She lies down without a second thought.

Cleaning the wound was torment, teasing her with feather light touches. Massaging her bruised back is actual torture. She can’t restrain the sigh that escapes with the first stroke of his hands, properly on her skin for the first time that evening.

She loves his hands. She loves his entire body, of course, parts of it very much indeed, but there is something about his hands that just drive her crazy. She frequently thanks the Maker that he usually wears gloves. She’s not sure she’d be able to concentrate fully at the war table if he was moving his map markers with his bare hands.

His hands are strong. So strong. They’re clever too, just as capable of gripping a quill to write his flawless reports as gripping his magnificent sword and shield. His calluses, earned from years of hard work, scrape deliciously against her skin. Which reminds her of other uses she has for his hands. She can’t control the shiver that runs through her entire body at the combination of that thought with said hands actually touching her. 

Then those wonderful hands go completely still.

“Too much?”

She hopes her groan of disagreement is enough, but he remains motionless, all pressure gone until she can barely feel him on her skin. Clumsily, she reaches back, grasping for him. It’s enough, his hands move from the bruises on the small of her back. His fingers dig into her shoulders, flexing and kneading the knots in her aching muscles.

It’s agonisingly pleasurable, but she still feels so tense, can’t help tensing further even as he works.

“Relax, Evelyn.” His voice drops in that specific way that makes her weak. “Let me help you.”

She tries. She tries so hard, but she can’t relax. She’s so wound up, so turned on. Does he really not realise how damn sensual this is? He can’t still be treating her injuries, surely.

Then his right hand moves to her waist.

And there is an entirely different sensation.

His lips.

His mouth.

Open-mouthed kisses on her neck, her shoulders, trailing down her spine. His lips and tongue and breath on her skin.

Her mind goes white with pleasure. She can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even think, can only feel.

“Better,” he whispers, lips against her ear. Not a question. She shivers again, her entire body shaking.

Then his hands return. She feels like liquid, barely held together by skin. Completely boneless. It’s crazy. He’s only touched her back and shoulders. She shouldn’t be having this kind of reaction. But Cullen does nothing if not exceed her expectations.

She lets go of all the stress she feels. Every word and action she’s ever bitten back, every nasty thing anyone has ever said about her, every shortcoming she’s ever felt guilty about. Nothing could possibly matter while his hands are doing this to her body.

How is he so good at it? If it weren’t the height of idiocy to remove him from command of her forces, she’d keep him in her bedroom purely for this purpose. 

Then the bed shifts beneath her and his hands disappear.

He’s not leaving, surely?

She’s too relaxed to do more than moan a noise of protest, tilting her head just slightly. Strong, warm fingers brush her hair away from her face, and she opens one eye. He’s smirking down at her, the very picture of pride. If it weren’t so completely earned, she’d laugh. Not that she has the energy to laugh.

“When was the last time you ate anything?” he asks. Maker help her, he’s still using that voice. That deep, steady voice. Even in her current liquid state, it still shoots sparks all through her, compels her to answer truthfully.

“Yesterday. And not much even then.”

His fingers smooth through her hair once more, and then he says, “Give me a moment.”

She nods helplessly, but true to his word, he’s back within seconds. He sets a tray down on the table beside the bed and then wraps his arm around her, carefully helping her to roll over and sit back against the pillows. His gaze travels over her body, and for the briefest of brief seconds, she thinks he might be reconsidering healing her the way she was originally picturing. Then he smiles, a relieved smile, not the kind she was expecting, pulls the blanket up to her chest and settles himself on the bed beside her.

Finally, she notices the contents of the tray. Bread and cheese and meat and those perfect little honey cakes Josie has specially made from an Antivan recipe. For the first time in two days, she actually feels hungry. She reaches for the plate, but before she can take it, his hand gently bats hers away.

“Relax. Let me.”

She obeys, leaning against his shoulder as he hands her bites of food, revelling in the simple domesticity of it. Is this what being a normal couple is like? Not hiding in dark corners, flirting awkwardly on battlements, stealing moments between meetings, just lying in bed eating dinner together. Of course, in her perfect domestic fantasy, they’d be a little more equally undressed, but she’ll take what she can get.

When the savoury food is finished, he offers her one of the little honey cakes. She remembers the day Josephine first gave her one, all small and sweet and spicy. The memory makes her smile. But he has a peculiar expression on his face, a mixture of apprehension and distrust.

Neither he nor Josie put the cakes on the tray then. Which leaves…

“Sera?”

His eyes widen slightly. “How did you guess?”

Another wonderful memory. Sera had made it a personal mission to find something sweet to replace the treacherous cookies. Vivienne’s favourites, fancy Orlesian things that were light as air and made mostly of sugar, had been deemed useless both as food and ammunition. Dorian’s Tevinter specialities were too sticky, and contained a surprising excess of fruit for proper indulgence. But Josephine’s spicy-sweet honey cakes, as bright yellow as could be, were just right. Sera had even attempted to build an apiary for her bees to get her own honey supply to bake with. 

“She doesn’t like cookies. I gave her these instead. She loved them. Said she’d learn how to make them.”

His apprehension turns to outright fear, and she can’t help but laugh.

“She hasn’t,” she assures him. “The cook won’t let her in the kitchen anymore.”

She pops the cake into her mouth and then takes another from the tray, holding it out to him. She expects him to take it from her, brushing his fingers against hers as they’ve been doing, but he leans forwards and eats it right out of her hand. Her brain clouds over for a moment, and the slightly ecstatic look that crosses his face doesn’t help.

All she can do is collapse back against the pillows, her hand lingering on his bicep.

“This is nice,” she sighs. “I should get injured more often.”

She feels his arm tense under her fingers, even through the layers of his armour. Oops, she thinks. The image of her in danger and pain is likely to be a fairly common aspect of his nightmares. She didn’t really intend to add the idea of her doing it on purpose to get his attention.

He grasps her hand, lacing their fingers together.

“You don’t need to be hurt for me to take care of you. Just say the word and I’ll make you feel better.”

She wants to say something about other ways he can make her feel better, but one slightly awkward mood-shattering comment per conversation is enough for her sanity. She smiles up at him, squeezing his hand tightly in a way she hopes conveys that she believes him.

“You always make me feel better.”

He smiles back, concern still shadowing his face. She wants to snuggle up to him and never leave the bed again. He can look after her all he wants. Eventually Josephine and Leliana would probably get very angry, and yes, the world might end without her to save it, but is that really so important?

Just as she’s about to close her eyes, head tipped against his shoulder, she feels him begin to get up…

“Where are you going?” She hopes she doesn’t sound as panicked as she feels. For all she knows, he’s just getting up to clear the plate away or get more wine.

The slightly guilty look on his face clears up that conundrum. He looks from her to the stairs and back, hand twitching in that way it does when he’s really restraining the urge to rub the back of his neck.

“You should rest.”

What he think she’s been doing in the last… however long it took to go from sunset to darkness? Rock-climbing? She guesses that that isn’t quite the right tact to take in this particular situation though. Humour will make him awkward. Her Inquisitor voice is likely to make his resolve to leave stronger, knowing that she’s feeling better. 

Quiet and hopeful it is.

“I’ll rest better with you. I’ve… I’ve missed you. Stay?”

He seems to take a moment, and then he smiles, standing up from the bed. For a second, she thinks she’s lost. He’s going to walk out and go back to his draughty solitary office and she’ll be left alone again.

Then he shrugs off his cloak, draping it carefully over the chair by her desk.

And the layers keep coming off.

Watching him remove his armour is one of her favourite pastimes. She can’t help it. It’s like watching your present unwrap itself. With each piece of metal and leather removed and stacked on her desk, a bit more of his delicious form is revealed. She can’t help staring at him. She must look practically hungry but she doesn’t care.

He keeps his eyes on her as he removes the last meagre pieces of clothing, which just isn’t fair. She all but promised him that she would rest if he stayed, but the way he’s looking at her, smirking the way he does, rest is the last thing on her mind. Usually that particular combination leads to him finding a flat surface to press her against.

“That would not be restful,” he says, still in the damnable tone, as he slides under the blankets beside her.

She takes the opportunity to wrap his arm around her, pressing her body against his, trying to encourage him to hold her properly. He’s still being so damn careful of her back. 

“It could be?” 

She has to try, at least once. Just in case. He wants it as much as she does, that much is obvious. When he doesn’t respond at once, she leans up, arching against him, pressing her lips against his. She hasn’t actually kissed him since the previous day, a shocking oversight she intends to rectify immediately. 

He breaks the kiss to answer her. “Not the way I would do it.”

If possible, his voice has become even deeper, rough and commanding. She disguises the shiver that runs through her by kissing him again. His arm tightens around her and then relaxes, letting her curl up against him, head pillowed on his bare chest. It’s a wonderful place to be.

One more try.

“In the morning?”

“Perhaps.”


End file.
